


Corvidae

by p1013



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canonical Character Death, M/M, Minor Draco Malfoy/Pansy Parkinson, Minor Draco Malfoy/Theodore Nott, Minor Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, POV Multiple, Vignettes, happy-ish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-16
Updated: 2020-05-16
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:54:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24217717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/p1013/pseuds/p1013
Summary: The air is cold, the boat as unsteady as Harry's rapidly beating heart. He's not used to the feeling of hope, but as it swells within him, he thinks he could come to be.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 20
Kudos: 142





	Corvidae

* * *

_One for sorrow_

* * *

He's a year old. Too young to know anything more of life than the warmth of his mother's embrace and the sound of his father's laugh. Last week, he took his first steps. Unsteady, toddling things that ended with him falling into warmth, into laughter. He cried more from fear than pain, but his mother picked him up and cradled him close and whispered happy sounds into his hair, mixed with kisses. She tickled him, sending him squirming and laughing, his fingers tangled in her red hair.

He's a year old. He's safe and loved. His world, so small and insular and perfect, is full. When he goes to sleep, tucked in with a blanket and a night light that casts stars on the ceiling, he does it with a soft smile curled around the edges of his dummy.

The sound of his door crashing open startles him awake. He's crying before he knows why. His mother, usually full of laughter, has him wrapped in a too tight embrace that he struggles against. She tells him things in a voice he's never heard before, her fingers pressed tight against his face as she hurries towards the window. There's a shout from downstairs, then silence as her face goes pale and tears pour down both of their faces.

When the figure steps into the doorframe, Harry feels real fear for the first time in his life. His cries still, stop for a moment, and his mother speaks in quiet, angry tones. Whatever she says, it doesn't stop the stranger from walking into the room. He cries again, louder this time, wanting his mother, wanting his father, wanting someone to make this person go away. But instead, the stranger comes closer, a stick in his hand and pointed at them. Harry reaches for it, and his mother slaps his hand away, making him cry harder.

Then, there's a flash of green light, and Harry's falling, the sudden limpness of his mother's arms almost as much of a shock as the pain of the floor crashing into his soft, rounded baby body. He cries and cries and can't roll away from his mother. She's heavy and pinning him to the ground, and it hurts. The stranger comes towards him, and Harry raises his pudgy arms up, wanting comfort, even from this person he doesn't know. But when the man touches him, he screams and steps back.

There's a loud noise from outside, a mechanical din that Harry's heard before. The stranger doesn't like it, and with a laugh that sounds like a snarl, he disappears.

Harry, trapped under his mother's slowly cooling weight, cries and cries and cries.

* * *

_Two for joy_

* * *

Harry shivers in his robes. It's cold outside, and it's made worse by the way the wind whips over the smooth, black surface of the lake. The small flotilla of boats, crowded with the rest of the first years, leave glinting trails behind them, almost like stars in the night sky. Above them, its windows like another universe cast against the sky, is the castle. It's the biggest building Harry's ever seen, bigger even than the Houses of Parliament — he saw them once when the Dursley's needed to go to London and dragged him along. He only had a moment to gape at that great building, so now, he takes his time.

Its stones are light, its windows filled with color. Though they're still in its shadow, Harry can feel the magic of it buzzing through him. The castle feels as warm and real as Ron's body next to his in the boat, and Harry's stomach dips either from the unsettled rocking of the boat or the excitement twisting its way through his body. It's a new feeling, one of anticipation and joy. He hasn't had much of that in his life, and as he breathes through it, he wonders if he'll ever get used to it, if he'll learn to take this emotion for granted.

He sincerely hopes that he never does.

Staring up at the castle, he thinks he's never seen anything so grand. He's never been allowed to see anything like this, not for long. And to think that the next handful of years of his life, he'll be allowed within its doors, within its halls, that he'll be able to call this great hulk of a thing home, it makes his throat tighten. He thinks even the cupboards will be large here, though he doubts he'll have to sleep in one anymore.

The air is cold, the boat as unsteady as Harry's rapidly beating heart. He's not used to the feeling of hope, but as it swells within him, he thinks he could come to be.

* * *

_Three for a girl_

* * *

The collar of Draco's robes scratch his neck, but he doesn't pay it any mind. Most dress robes are uncomfortable, but his mother has assured him time and time again that it's all to look his best.

"Robes make the wizard, darling," she said as she tucked his hair into place. "They are an armour for when you go into society."

"Why not make them comfortable?" he groused, shifting beneath her hands as they continued tidying him.

"Because everyone is uncomfortable, darling, and they all know that you are, too. The ones who don't show that discomfort are the ones to watch out for." She kisses his forehead. "Be comfortable, Draco, even though you aren't. It will make you stronger than them."

So he walks into the Great Hall, head held high, Pansy on his right, her delicate hands draped over the curve of his elbow, the scratch at his neck a distant, ignored itch. Pansy's not as unconcerned as Draco is, but she's also wearing an unflattering color and knows it. The pink of her robes are shifted more towards purple than red, and it makes her skin look sallow rather than rich. It does bring out the color in her cheeks, and he loves how bright her eyes are when she looks up at him, so he forgives her for not picking the perfect shade, and lets her trail along after him through the Hall.

As he takes in the decour, he's pleased to note that he matches quite well. His silver-blond hair and matte black robes are the perfect compliment to the night sky and silver frost, and as he and Pansy twirl elegantly around the room, he feels something like happiness well up inside him. He is strong and proud and confident where the rest of the students are as far from it as possible. The only person who might put him to shame is Granger, which is almost as much of a shock as the change in her. Weasley looks positively apoplectic, though he's doing his best to hide it. But Draco's learned how to read people, and he recognizes thwarted desire when he sees it.

That night, Draco lets Pansy draw him closer, lets her brush her lips gently against his to send a shock dancing through his body. As her hands trace over his body, slowing peeling his robes away, he sinks into the sensation. She's soft where he's hard, and the contrast makes his heart race.

He doesn't let her see his discomfort.

* * *

_Four for a boy_

* * *

Theo is keening beneath Draco, his head thrown back, spine arched as Draco plunges, again and again, into Theo's open, wet, willing body. Draco leans forward, threads his fingers through Theo's sweat-damp hair, and pulls his head back, forcing his back to arch almost to the point of pain. The groan it drags from Theo's extended throat, though, is made entirely of pleasure, and Draco feels a thrill of power, of victory, as Theo starts shaking apart against him.

Theo collapses onto his arms, face in the mattress, ass thrust high in the air, and Draco holds onto Theo's hips for dear life, fucking Theo until Draco's panting, until his vision clouds, until he can imagine that Theo's brown hair, darkened with sweat, is black. Draco nearly calls out the wrong name when he comes, but he manages to muffle the secret of it with his own hand, fingers pressed into his mouth as he tips his head back, eyes shut and seeing someone else's face.

Draco slides from Theo's body, falls to the bed next to him. When Theo curls in closer, pressing kisses to Draco's throat and chest, Draco lets him. He closes his eyes and threads his fingers in Theo's hair and holds him close, pretending.

In the morning, after Theo leaves and Draco's left alone in his stained sheets, he'll feel disgust and anger. Not at Theo, who's a friend, who understands that Draco's looking for release and nothing more, but at himself. He knows what's expected of him. Knows what he can and cannot have. And dark hair spread on a pillow, green eyes looking up at him without the thin protection of glasses, a lean, hard body... Those are things he cannot have, not even in the depths of his own mind.

* * *

_Five for silver_

* * *

The Mark is the worst pain that Draco has ever experienced in his entire life. When the Dark Lord seers it into his arm, the man — Draco hesitates to use that word; the Dark Lord's humanity is so twisted that it's something barely resembling life — doesn't flinch though Draco fights back screams and tears.

His parents stand on the edge of the room. Lucius watches with an impassive, imperious gaze. Draco's familiar with it, that slightly domineering, disappointed mien. His father has worn it for years now. He used to only bring it out for special occasions before. His silver grey eyes are disenchanted and dull. Draco is surprised his father's still in the room with how unaffected he appears.

His mother, though, is barely holding herself together. Her eyes are wet and shining, though no tears stain her cheeks. Fingers clenched around her own arms, knuckles white and shaking, she's on the verge of breaking down. But she keeps her eyes trained on Draco, refuses to look away. She knows what's happening here, the irreparable damage being done to Draco's flesh as the Dark Lord carves his symbol into it with slow precision.

When he's done, the Dark Lord walks away as if nothing life-altering has happened in this poorly-lit room of Malfoy Manor. This is, after all, one of many Marks he'll leave today. Draco's parents were asked to host a small celebration, a gathering for the Dark Lord's inner circle's newest members to be brought into the fold. Draco knows that Vince and Greg are waiting for their turns just down the hall. But as the Dark Lord turns his back on Draco, whose blood is dripping down his arm to stain the carpet beneath his feet, there's a flash of white-hot anger and disgust for the not-quite-man walking away.

And for himself.

* * *

_Six for gold_

* * *

The locket is warm and heavy in his hands. The gold always draws him closer, though Harry doesn't like to admit his fascination with it. The chain cuts into his skin when he wears it. He shouldn't enjoy that pain or the way it makes his shoulders hunch in on themselves. But the burden makes him feel like this is all worthwhile, that Dumbledore's death had a purpose. Harry is continuing Dumbledore's mission, moving closer and closer to destroying the disparate flecks of Voldemort's soul scattered across the world. That's what drives his fascination for the glint of gold and the hot trickle of blood down the back of his neck. Nothing else.

He leans forward, whispers to the snake on the front of the locket, and stares into the eyes within. Displaced as they are, it's easy for Harry to forget who they belonged to. The last time he saw Voldemort's eyes, they were red and slitted like a snake's. These eyes are warm and brown, dark enough that Harry can lose himself in them. These are Tom's eyes, not Voldemort's. Harry's not sure that he can think of Tom and Voldemort as the same person. He knows he should. After all, Voldemort killed his parents, killed Dumbledore, killed so many more. But even after all of the years since he wrote to the younger version of the Dark Lord, Harry struggles to make them the same in his mind. Tom had been intelligent, thrilling. He'd made Harry feel powerful, rather than weak or unwanted. Tom hadn't hurt Harry, not the way that Voldemort had. That he has.

But Tom _is_ Voldemort, and as Harry stares into Tom's eyes, eyes Tom used to have, Harry feels anger boil up within him until it's overflowing. He wants to throw the locket away, wants to tear it from his neck and crush it under the heel of his trainer, though he knows it won't do any good. He knows it's the locket's way of trying to escape, to keep the sliver of Voldemort within it safe and out of Harry's hands. And Harry's tired of being manipulated.

He slams it shut, forces the eyes to look away, and when he settles it back under his sweater, in the hollow of his neck, he pretends that the pain isn't a welcome reminder, that the weight doesn't bring him comfort, as if a cold, heavy thing pressing against his body isn't a reminder of home and happiness, of memories so old, they're nearly gone.

* * *

_Seven for a secret never told_

_Eight for a wish_

* * *

This is not what Draco expected his seventh year to be. He dreamed of anxious anticipation for graduation, for life after school. He looked forward to becoming an adult, becoming a man. He had hoped for his father's respect, finally earned after all this time. Walking across the great open lawn of Hogwarts to receive his parents warm adoration and joy.

Instead, Draco sits in the Room of Requirement, across from the empty Vanishing Cabinet. His arm aches. His head aches. His body aches. He's not even supposed to be here. If any of the other Death Eaters found out…

But, Draco reminds himself furiously, they won't. They're too busy running roughshod over the Muggleborn students, too busy molding the Wizarding World into whatever shape they want it to be for that day. And with that shape changing and morphing depending on who's molding it that day, Draco has found an opportunity to escape.

This isn't what he thought his life would be. Hiding in a room full of forgotten things, surrounded by mistakes made by people long dead. He feels like so much of the same. A broken, misshapen version of something once beautiful and beloved. The worst part is that he has no one to blame but himself. The Death Eaters wouldn't have invaded Hogwarts without his help. Dumbledore wouldn't have died at Snape's hand if Draco hadn't forced the issue.

He's run that night over and over in his mind so many times. His memories are overwhelmed with the strength of his fear and desperation, but even through the haze of terror, he sees Dumbledore's eyes bright and full of hope staring back at Draco. He said he could keep Draco and his family safe. He'd offered respite, refuge. And before Draco could let that offer sink in, before he could _decide_ , choice had been wrenched from his hands with the opening of a door and the Carrows and Greyback and Snape walking out in the starlit night.

He doesn't want to replay it, but he does. He worries at it like a child worries the corner of their favorite blanket, running it between their fingers until the fabric is thin and held together by memory more than thread. It's a nervous habit, but it brings comfort. It hurts, but it grounds him.

He doesn't tell anyone, can barely bring himself to tell himself, but he wishes he'd never fixed the Cabinet, wishes he'd been able to tell Dumbledore yes instead of saying nothing at all.

* * *

_Nine for a kiss_

_Ten for a bird you must not miss_

* * *

He hasn't had a quiet moment since immediately after the Battle. Since finally defeating Voldemort. It feels unreal, that thought. That Voldemort, a man who has haunted his life since he was an infant, is finally gone. When he tries to imagine his life without that dark shadow looming over it, he doesn't recognize it. It's too bright.

Staring out at the Weasley's backyard, watching their family — bruised and battered and missing pieces, but still together, still whole — he hopes it'll be something like this. That his life after Voldemort will be filled with warmth and love and arms to hold him up when he can't do it himself. He misses the people he's lost with such a bone-deep ache, he can't breathe. So many names, he's starting to forget them. Fred and Dumbledore. Remus and Tonks. Dobby. Hedwig.

And Merlin, he feels such shame when he counts her among the dead. She was a bird, one whose natural lifespan would've only been a handful of years more than she had. He would have had to mourn her eventually, but somehow her life being cut short feels as sharp and bloody as Fred's laugh cut off halfway through or Remus and Tonks hands touching, even in death.

Needing a distraction, he looks up and around the Weasleys's garden. Molly and Arthur are standing in the light cast from the kitchen, while George and Bill refill their drinks from the small table set up outside. Hermione and Ron are on the edges of the group, their arms wrapped around each other, heads tilted together. From where he's sitting, Harry can't tell if their eyes are opened or closed, but he can tell that it doesn't matter. They're wrapped up in each other completely, a mix of love and grief written across their shoulders, described by the line of their backs. Hermione tilts her head up, just a slight twist of her neck, and Ron meets her, their mouths pressed together with a gentleness that makes Harry ache. This is love in its most pure form. He thinks if Voldemort were still around, if he were still not-quite-alive, and he touched either of them, he'd be destroyed by it.

A hand presses against his shoulder, and Harry startles. Turning, he finds Ginny's smiling face. There's so much sadness there, and he settles his hand against the side of her face, thumb resting in the corner of her mouth as if it could ease some of the suffering gathered in the parted line of her lips.

"Hey," she says quietly, leaning into the touch. "You looked lonely."

He smiles with grief lodged in his throat. "I might've been."

"Want some company?"

He nods, lets her draw him in closer. She's warm against his side, and it eases some of the ache. "What now?"

"Now?" She sighs. "Now we learn how to live."

She presses a kiss to his cheek, and it's a soft rasp of skin against skin. He turns his head, meets her lips again. But while there should be comfort in the affection, all he can think of is the way that Hermione and Ron can find each other, even with their eyes closed, and that he didn't recognize Ginny's tentative touch on his shoulder when, once upon a time, he knew the sound of an owl's wings better than the sound of his own exhaled breath.

* * *

_Eleven is worse_

* * *

Draco's knees are shaking, though he's somehow managing to keep his steps steady. The Wizengamot was not what he expected, though he honestly doesn't know what he _had_ expected. It hadn't been the single chair in the center of the sunken room and a sea of eyes so much like his father's staring down at him in judgement.

It hadn't been Harry Potter walking in, back straight and shoulders unbowed, to explain to the court that Draco Malfoy had been integral to the war effort, to defeating the Dark Lord. Draco doesn't know why Potter lies, but he lies beautifully. Beautifully enough that the court acquits him and, for the first time in months, Draco Malfoy walks out into the world as a free, though Marked, man.

The air of London is heavy with pollution and smog, but it smells sweet compared to Azkaban. Draco takes a deep breath, pulls the dirty air into his lungs thankfully, and wonders what in the hell he's going to do next.

"Hey, Malfoy."

He doesn't startle, but he does turn to face the unexpected voice at his back. "Potter. I should say thank you, I suppose."

Potter shrugs. "Your mom saved my life. I owed her, not you."

The brutal honesty of the statement is refreshing, rather than off-putting. Like the air, it's a relief even with all of the dirt mixed in. "Still. Thank you."

"What're you going to do next?"

"Not sure, honestly. Lunch, I think."

"Lunch sounds good."

Draco raises an eyebrow. "Would you like to join me?"

Potter's shrug is easy, though he can't meet Draco's eyes. "Depends on where you're eating, I guess."

"Why don't you suggest something?"

And, surprisingly, Potter does.

* * *

_Twelve for a dastardly curse_

* * *

It's dark in Harry's bedroom. Grimmauld is always dark, no matter the time, but night seems to bring the shadows out of hiding. They cover everything like funeral shrouds, and even though the fire, burnt down to embers, is doing its best to fight them away, it's still unnaturally black this late at night.

It makes the bright shock of hair on the pillow next to his all the more blinding. Draco — Harry isn't sure when they shifted from last names to first — is asleep next to him. His blond hair, such a light shade to be almost white, is short but still scattered, tousled from sleep and from Harry's fingers hours before. He briefly considers brushing it away from Draco's forehead, putting it back into carefully tended order, but he also doesn't want to wake Draco up. He doesn't sleep well most nights, and Harry's learned to let Draco sleep when he can. There will be time to fuss over the man's hair later, though Harry will be an observer rather than the one doing it.

Their relationship still strikes him as so odd. He doesn't know how he came to be curled up in his sheets with Draco's body warm next to his. It's nothing like when he was with Ginny, nothing like his desire for Cho Chang when they were in school. This aches, even in the sweetest moments. It feels like a curse, but one he'd never want to remove. It's a mark on his heart, a stain that can't be washed away, so similar to the Mark on Draco's arm and so dissimilar at the same time. It's warmth and laughter, pieces being put back together, a bone deep ache like loss, like finding someone's mouth with his own, eyes squeezed shut.

He doesn't know when it happened, when this stranger walked into his life and became the center of it. But as he moves into the spaces left between his and Draco's body, curling as close as he can without touching, he thinks everything would be worse without it, without Draco.

He thinks that he's learning how to live, finally, and that he should hate himself for needing Draco to do that.

Instead, he closes his eyes and sleeps, a soft smile curved around the edges of his mouth. He doesn't wake up until the morning, with Draco's hand coasting over his waist and pulling him in close, mouth tasting of laughter and hope.

He thinks he'd like to get used to it.

**Author's Note:**

> Big thanks to Bella and Lis for cheering me on while writing this and for putting up with yet more angst from me.
> 
> The words for the nursery rhyme were taken from the always reputable Wikipedia.


End file.
